


All This Will Pass

by recrudescence



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Ubervirgin for the CM fic exchange. Prompt: Garcia and Prentiss go out and are surprised to find Reid and Hotch on a date...and engaged in heavy PDAs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All This Will Pass

Reid had once described his sexual history as sporadic and erratic.

Excessive levels of brainpower aren’t required in order to make sense of that. Throughout school, being years behind physically and light-years ahead mentally doesn’t necessarily make for a particularly promiscuous education.

Dim enough to see the drinks in front of them, allover shadowplay throughout the venue, a bar and a local band attracting the bulk of the attention on the other side of it, both making enough noise to drown out any conversations occurring at less than a shout. Friday feels like an actual Friday for once, a time for sinking in hard with fully bared teeth and not giving up the promise of a weekend without first coming to fisticuffs.

Words like _rebounding_ and _midlife crisis _hover too close to the surface for Hotch’s comfort at times and it doesn’t seem quite fair to be taking it out on Reid, not even thirty, everything still too new for him to know better (maybe he’s taking advantage, recently stripped of his family and looking for something different; can’t get much more of a change than sleeping with a man and a co-worker). Tweed and corduroy and stodgy cold-weather clothing, bundled around the form currently squirming and writhing beside him in the furnace-hot booth. Coat off, but pulled close over both knees to cover the fact that Hotch has a hand slipped through his open fly, feeling the swell of him through the loose cloth of his underwear, tension trembling in that shallow stomach as his mouth grazes wetly up behind Reid’s ear.

"Um, have you heard of public indecency, by any chance?" Reid asks with only partial facetiousness, a quivery smile playing over his mouth even as he’s pressing it gently to Aaron’s throat. "Because this seems awfully close to the line."

"Public, yes. Indecent, no." They’re still fully clothed, Reid slumped against him and not quite on his lap; could just be one drunken friend taking care of another at the end of a long, trying week. All signs pointing to the seventeen-year-old boy with Marilyn Manson’s autobiography under his pillow and Charles Manson all over his hard drive, garroting neighborhood girls because he could, only the real culprit turned out to be his clean-cut neighbor whom no one ever would have suspected if not for the identity theft charges Garcia had dug up. "Should I stop?"

"I...no." Audible as a snowflake settling. The way Reid’s breath catches in between the two words does things to Hotch’s already hairline-cracked veneer of composure that it very probably shouldn’t. Wetting his lips, hefting over in order to be sitting more on Hotch than on the seat itself, and Reid’s head tips back enough for his mouth to graze the angle of Aaron’s jaw. "It’s okay."

This is what could in some circles be called progress and in others be called corruption. First time he murmured in Reid’s ear about wanting to go down on him, he’d shuddered and laughed nervously even though he was half-dressed and heavy-lidded in the middle of Hotch’s bed. "I thought people only said things like that in really horrible movie dialogues." After a beat, he’d grimaced and quickly amended, "Only, it’s not horrible when you say it. I’m just not used to it."

Haley would have batted his arm and uttered his name wrapped up in a bell-like laugh, then kissed him into unintelligibility. Reid, when Hotch opens his mouth, shivers and clutches and falters. Drinking everything in like he hasn’t had a chance to fully figure out which buttons he likes having pressed yet.

Starting small, in the beginning. Sharing anecdotes, exchanging intimacy one cautiously ascended stairstep at a time. The time he skimmed Sean’s shoulder with a BB gun when he was a teenager, back before he knew anything about passing firearms proficiency. Reid had seemed certain Hotch was practically born knowing how to fire a weapon. Reid, who in turn told him how once he’d come home from school to find the living room wallpaper in strips and curls all over the floor because his mother insisted there was a roach on the wall that kept hiding itself the pattern before she could kill it.

Basic maneuvering. Sensing something behind a door and _pushing_, easing it open carefully to size up whatever happens to be visible, then slamming all obstacles aside and leaping in with the safety off. Reid thrusting shallowly into his hand, one hand curled in a death grip on Aaron’s thigh. "If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to strip you naked, push you over the table, and _fuck _you. Right here." Deliberately low, heated and husked and rolling out of him up into the dampness of Reid’s slackly parted lips. "I could let everyone here see you begging and crying out for it, coming all over yourself and _loving _it." There’s a small, helpless sound from that lax mouth and Hotch has no compunctions whatsoever about kissing it, right out in semi-public with no coat or casualness to mask the movement, and Spencer _jolts _against him, spine curving and hands clutching. Just from that, the fast-hot sensation of lips on his own. _Christ_.

Up on all fours, in his mind’s eye, hair in his face and skin splotched pink with a flush. "There wouldn’t be a single eye on the stage anymore. Have you get up on your knees, push your own fingers inside, let you fuck yourself on your own hand till you _lose _it. Put my tongue up inside you, maybe, and make you come _again_," and _squeezing _tighter with his fist just to hear Spencer swallow down a whine, "until you’re shaking and screaming for me and too exhausted to even get hard." It’s irrelevant that Hotch hasn’t ever actually partaken in that particular act, not yet, and Reid doesn’t actually scream, also not yet. Too tightly wound in every way possible; working with only one finger at first, gradually relaxing him, it had taken nearly an hour to coax him into letting go before he was propped on his elbows, arms trembling and mouth open, voice shattering from trying to speak too many words at once. Not sure whether to utter Hotch’s first or last name and eventually settling on both, then _please_. Again and again. Heels braced into divots of blanket and _convulsing _all over, clamped impossibly hard around Aaron’s fingers and crushing him in close when he came over his middle.

Maybe Aaron wouldn’t do it, but he can _see _it. Bare and desperate in the low lighting, taut limbs and sweat-stippled paleness, spasming and taking his pleasure without any inhibitions at all. There have been occasions, here and there, where he’s noticed Reid trying to slip free of his own mind and never managing. Spencer isn’t one to ask for help when he needs it, but Hotch has always been perceptive.

He and Haley had a brief falling-out in college and he slept with a man, only the once, only because he was off the rails, and Reid had looked at him with something like glee after hearing his confession and informed him that maybe rails weren’t always the transportation method of choice. Reid’s efforts at conversation range from the surprisingly forthright to the ridiculously roundabout. Hotch ruined dinner once, trying a recipe Sean swore wasn’t as advanced as it looked, and Reid’s response had been to duck his head and begin talking rapidly about how canned food couldn’t be trusted, according to his mother, and since Wednesday was dairy day if he wanted milk for his cereal he’d either had to sneak it into the house or wait for whichever day Diana decided was Wednesday. Then he had slipped off his shirt and let Hotch draw him close enough to kiss anywhere he liked and the topic of dinner became unnecessary until it was closer to breakfast.

Empty wineglass in front of him, empty mug in front of Spencer, who’d had no qualms about ordering one at the bar and claimed that microwaving Swiss Miss at home was just depressing compared to fresh hot chocolate. Whipped cream and all, lingering on his lips until Aaron took it upon himself to clean them off for him. Chocolate and sweetness, too innocent of a taste, combined with Spencer being too innocent in the one overlooked area of his intellect. Erratic and sporadic. Hotch keeps that at the forefront of his mind at all times, along with his conscious. Keeping himself in check even as he’s keeping four flexed fingers tight around the length of Reid’s cock, kneading and pressing— even as he’s pressing his own name right up against the hot-tense column of his neck—and feeling him _leak _against the pad of his thumb.

"Hotch...Aaron, please...I don’t know if I can—" and his head snapping back, hips snapping forward, coming with Hotch palming him through his pants, lips pressed tightly together and face screwed up in something that might be mistaken pain by anyone not knowing better.

Hotch only answers by humming, head tucked against the softness of uncombed hair.

"Take me home." Voice unsteady, and Hotch’s hands dare to go creeping higher under the loose hem of his shirt, finding flat nipples and gently pinching them into pinkness, hard and tight and responsive as a girl, as Haley. Reid’s fingers go flitting over a button as if he subconsciously wants to undo it. "I..." swallowing, grinding a little against Hotch’s groin, smiling wide and real when Aaron’s eyes shutter and his body arcs. "I want to put my mouth on you. Everywhere."

Stroking a hand down the boniness of that back, face nudging into the nape of his neck, tongue tracing wet whorls around too-visible vertebrae. If anyone can see him, he can’t be bothered to worry.

"That wasn’t too...porn-sounding, was it?" Hearing Reid mention porn is unexpected and intriguing, and Hotch can tell he’s reading the reaction right off his face when Spencer wriggles around to look at him and _grins_. Eager and young and receptive as can be. Hotch has a hand in his hair and his lips to his ear before he can tell himself that maybe he shouldn’t.

There's more, plenty more. He could strip those pants down to Spencer’s knees the instant the two of them are behind closed doors, lick-nip slowly all up that bowing spine—guide him to bend over the bed, back of the couch, chair, either lift that dress shirt out of the way or just take his sweet time unfastening it as he presses up against Reid from behind, letting him whimper and _grind _against him. And then, just as gradually, just as agonizingly, push into him—and _stay _there, not moving until Reid is blushing and clenching and _pleading _for Hotch to do him faster, harder; all those gorgeously uncensored thoughts finally spilling out nonstop.

His index finger slowly sketches a circle around the same shirt button Reid had been fussing with earlier. "Not at all."

\--

"Okay. Superpower of choice at this very moment: photographic memory or bionic hearing?"

"Hearing," Prentiss answers instantly, taking another very long drink and not bothering to stop staring. "I didn’t think Hotch would..._talk_. During. Not that I ever thought about—" Breaking off, she shifts her gaze to the side. "If Reid was reeling off statistics and Hotch was just telling him to shut up, I’ll throttle him. Some things can never be sexy."

Absently, Garcia reaches for her margarita, missing the first couple times because she can’t quite manage to pry her attention away from the shadow-shrouded booth diagonally across from them. "Casual and nonchalant, casual and nonchalant," she hisses, abruptly swinging around to face the other way and very non-nonchalantly jerking her head for Prentiss to do the same. "They’re getting _up_, Emily; _move_."

Prentiss has her doubts about the efficiency of trying to hide in plain sight—from _profilers, _no less—but it’s safe enough to guess that Hotch and Reid aren’t on their guard for an audience of any kind. At her side, several seconds later, there’s a deeply heaved breath and the sound of a glass being set down with great finality. "Are we clear?" she ventures wryly.

"JJ," Garcia says, already flipping open her phone, "is going to flip her shit."


End file.
